


Jeyne and Bael

by WendyNerd



Series: Jeyne and Bael [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Unbeta'd, escape fic, might become multi-chapter, promptfill, there is smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-20
Updated: 2016-09-20
Packaged: 2018-08-16 09:31:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8096950
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Response to the prompt:Jon and Sansa escape to Essos after Jon finds her again in the Vale. They adopt to their fake married aliases so well, they forget they are not actually married.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Promptfill originally meant for bookverse, but I enjoyed the concept a bit more show!verse, believe it or not. Enjoy!
> 
> Further note: I accidentally posted the wrong text here originally, that of my other story, "What They Deserve". It is fixed now! Thanks for the alerts!

It’s moments like these when she forgets her guilt. She can forget about what she’s left behind. She’s been feeling safe, truly safe, for the first time since Father’s death.

Despite her protests, despite how she fought Jon on this, when their ship from East watch first cast off and she watched the shore grow smaller, she did feel a twinge of relief. At some point, that shore became the ground on which Ramsay Bolton, Cersei Lannister, Petyr Baelish, Illyn Payne, and so many others walked upon. They had infected every inch of land to some extent. Even her childhood home became her prison as she was raped and tormented nightly upon her parents’ bed.

It’s when they dock at White Harbor that Sansa realizes that Jon was right. Their next ship is due to sail at dawn, there are mere hours before they leave and never come back, yet she is seized with fear the moment she sets foot on Westerosi land. She sees the merman sigil of the Manderlys and bitterly thinks that though they declared for Robb once, they’ve submitted to the Boltons since. She’s petrified. She’s thousands of miles from Ramsay Bolton, but she feels like he’s inches away. Any second she expects to be seized and delivered back to her husband.

And she knows she cannot go back. Winterfell burned, and she was raped upon the ashes. She has no means to reclaim her home, really. No army, no wealth, no family she can rely on. Her Tully uncles were captives somewhere and robbed of all their holdings, her Arryn aunt tried to kill her and died by the hands of her husband, who in turn sold Sansa to her mother and older brother’s murderers. Theon said that he didn’t really kill Bran and Rickon, that they escaped, but she has no way of knowing if they’re still alive. Arya escaped too, and while Brienne’s encounter with her did give Sansa some hope, she could still be dead.

Still, Sansa tasked the woman with finding her sister and brothers, and bringing them somewhere safe. Not to Winterfell, as Sansa’s lady mother requested, but somewhere safe. “Far, far from Winterfell, where Ramsay can’t touch them.”

It was when she gave that command that she realized that she was going to do as Jon wanted. That she would not take Winterfell back. Her brothers are only alive because they fled from those walls. She could likely say the same. And according to Jon, even if she could find some way to destroy the Boltons, there was another enemy approaching. An even deadlier one.

Sansa could not return to the place she’d once called home.

She could not help her siblings, either. She realizes that. When she argued with Jon and insisted they return to Winterfell and take it back, she did so partly because of what Theon and Brienne told her. Because Bran and Rickon and Arya might be out there.

But what could Winterfell offer them anymore, what could Sansa? Not even Jon seems to think himself capable of helping them, and he is a great warrior with men loyal to him. Jon, who defended the Wall against thousands of Wildlings, mammoths, and giant with a few hundred men, felt they needed to simply leave.

Sansa is pursued everywhere. By the Boltons to the North and the Lannisters in the South. She’s certain Littlefinger has likely started looking for her as well. Even if she could find her brothers and sister, she’d only add to their burdens. They’d end up being pursued along with her. If they have survived to this point, they’re better off without her. If they haven’t, there’s nothing she can do.

And there’s Jon. Jon, who has already died once. Jon, who has already been put in more danger thanks to her. Jon, who is tired and broken and deserves something better than to be subjected to more danger and bloodshed. He refuses to leave her, even though being with her has put a target on his back as well. The same shall happen to the others, should she find them. And she will not allow whatever loved ones she has left to be further endangered because of her.

All she can do is send Brienne to them and flee with Jon. Leave all of this behind.

So she’s dyed her hair again, this time an inky black. She’s donned a common woman’s kirtle and cloak and packed up all that she has left, and she’s stepped on a ship as her half-brother begged her to do.

She’s tense and fearful during their brief night in White Harbor, though it doesn’t feel brief to her. She literally vomits from fear and refuses to leave the room at the Inn that she and Jon have booked. He stays with her, offering her soothing words and holding back her hair. When she steps onto the Swallow the next morning, she feels almost delirious with relief. She watches the shore of White Harbor shrink in the distance and knows she’ll never set foot on Westeros land again. It is the corpse-strewn, ashen playground of the Lannisters, Freys, Boltons, and Littlefinger’s of the world.

Jon uses money given to him by Dolorous Edd to book their passage. Brienne also gives them the sword Jaime Lannister gave her, Oathkeeper, before they leave. It is one of two Tywin Lannister bastardized out of Ice, the Stark ancestral blade. The other is in the Red Keep somewhere. Both rightfully belong to the Starks, but they have this one. They have the gold and rubies Tywin put on the pommel removed and Sansa sews the treasures into the lining of her kirtle to sell later. Both Oathkeeper and Longclaw, the Valyrian blade bestowed upon Jon by Jeor Mormont, are reformed. The white wolf pommel on it is too distinctive. The Boltons will be searching for that when they find out Jon and Sansa have fled. They have the distinctive Valyrian blades coated with regular steel as well.

Then there’s Ghost. Jon’s connection with the animal is as uncanny as the one Sansa all-too-briefly got to have with Lady. So when he sadly tells the wolf to go with Brienne and Podrick Payne, to seek out Arya, Bran, Rickon, Nymeria, Summer, and Shaggydog, they both know the wolf understands. Later, when Jon tries to hide his tears in their small cabin, Sansa embraces him and cries with him.

Jon intends to sell Longclaw when they get to Braavos so they can be comfortable once they arrive. It will fetch a King’s ransom in gold, surely. And whether they remain in the Titan’s City or travel further, the price of a Valyrian sword will afford them luxury.

But Sansa won’t let him do it. He will not sell Oathkeeper, of course. It’s the one piece of home they have left aside from each other. It was father’s sword. They must keep it. But Sansa feels he must keep Longclaw. Jeor Mormont gave it to Jon the night Jon killed and wight and saved his life. It is Jon’s. He grew up a bastard, the boy who owned nothing. She will not let him give this up. So Lannister gold and rubies are not the only thing she has hidden on her person as they travel.

On the money they have traveling, they can only afford one small cabin on each ship. But there’s a benefit to that as much as a discomfort. They take as few chances as possible in their escape, so they do not dare let people know they are siblings. Sansa has dyed her hair before and was still recognized. Ramsay knows that. Before long, people will be scowering the North for a brother and sister of their ages. So Sansa entertains herself by constructing new lives, new identities for them.

Jon Snow and Sansa Stark of Winterfell, siblings, become Bael and Jeyne, husband and wife from Deepwood Motte. He, a stablemaster and former soldier and she a needlewoman and Lady’s Maid. Both of them ready to make a new life for themselves in the East, away from the mad nobles and countless kings. It’s a good cover, as it turns out. Many smallfolk who can manage it are fleeing. Many people in the North will not be able to face this winter. When Robb Stark called his banners and led every man south, there weren’t enough people to bring in the latest harvests, and the North is more unprepared for the upcoming weather than in any autumn that anyone can remember. And that’s far from the only reason for the departure.

Bael and Jeyne are two among hundreds leaving everything they’ve ever known to escape the winter that is coming and the lords they have now.

Each temperate day on the Swallow, everyone capable goes up on the main deck. The women gather in a circle starboard while the men gather on the other end. Everyone keeps busy. And the women tell their stories. Bael and Jeyne don’t have tales as awful as many traveling on the Swallow. She encounters the sister of one of the girls Ramsay hunted. Another woman and her husband had family in the Saltpans when Gregor Clegane and his men attacked. Two women, one from Ethering and another from Last Hearth, were violated by their local lords claiming the right of “First Night” despite it being outlawed centuries ago. But with the country in chaos, the privileged are free to do whatever they wish. Another girl’s brother returned from the war of the Five Kings with a missing foot and eventually took his own life because he couldn’t help provide for their family, couldn’t work, and felt he was a burden. Some have grotesque scars courtesy of bandits. A few have burns all over their faces, neck, arms, and legs from their house being set ablaze by one gang of criminals. Sansa looks at them and thinks of Sandor Clegane, and prays he is somewhere away from flames.

But there is optimism among these people. Or, rather, hope. Which, in times like these seem like optimism. They are ready for a better life in the east. And gradually, Sansa realizes she is as well. She is not the only one who left family and home behind.

When they get to Braavos at last, Sansa is overwhelmed. For so long, her world has been grey, white, and black: grey skies, grey stone, white snow, leafless trees, mud, cold, and gloom. Braavos is an explosion of color. Red and golden clay buildings with multi-colored tiles and red roofs. People in clothing of every color, some with painted faces and even hair dyed all manner of hues, from red to green. Vendors with silken canopies over their booths, gardens with flowers of every shade. She is surrounded by people, by languages, by smells, by sunlight. And over it all loomed the Great Titan, protecting the city. It was like what she used to hope King’s Landing would be.

Jon finds them an inn for the next few nights. They place is cleaner than the one in White Harbor, and the cost is lower. They have a window overlooking one of the market streets. When their things— all fitting into one small trunk— are brought in, Jon locks the door and goes to unpack, urging her to rest.

“I’m not tired, I’m restless,” she says, reluctantly turning away from the window. “Let me help you.”

“It’s nothing, Sansa, really.”

“I don’t care, I want to help.” She watches nervously as Jon takes the two swords from the trunk. She’ll have to be careful with that. She takes the spare clothing they have and puts Jon’s away neatly before changing into hers. She takes the dress she’s been wearing for weeks, turns it inside out, and starts using scissors she’s brought to cut the Lannister wealth off of them.

“We should go into the markets this afternoon to sell these,” she says, sitting on the bed. Jon plants himself on the floor and begins inspecting the blades. “I will need good fabric and a sewing kit. And something to wash the dye out of my hair.”

Jon glances at her and smiles. “Ever the lady, aren’t you? I suppose it’s time you started dressing for your station again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” she says, “The fabric isn’t for me. It’s for selling. Jeyne’s a needlewoman, remember? I am going to make gowns to sell so we have an income.”

His smile drops. “Longclaw’s sale should make that unnecessary.”

“We don’t know that. I… I’ve been thinking that maybe we should put off selling the blade until we know this place better. Selling Valyrian steel will draw attention to us. It will make us a target for thieves. And we don’t know anyone. It’ll make it easier for people to cheat us. We sell it now, one of two things will happen: whoever we sell it to will take advantage of us, or, if we get a good price, someone will rob us of the gold at the first opportunity. Better we establish ourselves first. We’ll be less vulnerable when time comes to sell it that way.”

Jon’s eyes widen. “That’s… Yes, I suppose that makes sense. But… You don’t need to labor yourself with stitching fripperies for spoiled Braavosi. I can find work.”

“I’m sure you can, Jon, but I will not sit by and be useless while you do so. What do you expect me to do all day while you work? We need to learn the language here, both of us. It’ll be easier for me to do that selling dresses than if I spent my whole day brushing my hair in this room.”

“I don’t like the idea of you out in the city on your own.”

She sighs. “I’m sure we can find some way to work around that. We might find employment in the same place.”

“You think I should work in a dress shop?” He smiles then. “I’m not the needlewoman you are, I’m afraid.”

“I suppose not. But you could… lift and carry things. Or watch for thieves. Guard the stalls or store or wherever I end up working. Or keep the books for them. Or perhaps we could find work in a merchant’s manse. Something.”

“And what if we don’t remain here?”

“We try it in other cities. There are nine of them.” She gets off the bed and joins him on the floor, taking his hand in hers. “We’re doing this together, Jon. We’ll find our way.”

They do have some friends: other immigrants, some of whom know people in the city. Bael and Jeyne are invited to a gathering at the home of one of their shipmate’s family the next evening.

They go to the market that day and manage to get a good price for the jewelry. Sansa purchases some fine linens and silk, and makes a deal with one of the dressmakers to return in three days with a gown. If it meets the woman’s standards, she’ll employ them both. They find the chemical for Sansa hair as well and return to the inn that evening weary but satisfied.

When Sansa calls for a bath, Jon offers to leave, but she shakes her head. “I may need help washing the dye out of my hair.”  
He acts nervous as he helps her, but handles her mane with a surprising care. Snasa reclines in the water, smiling up at him. His face is wistful as he runs his fingers through her locks, coating them with the fluid.

“You’d make a fine Lady’s Maid,” she informs him with a smile. He blushes.

“I’m glad it won’t be black anymore. I love red hair. I missed yours.”

Her heart twists a little. At that moment, she’s happier than ever that Jon is the one with her. “Well, I’m glad to have it back as well. I was actually thinking about selling it, though.”

“What?!” He looks horrified. Sansa’s both stunned and rather touched.

“Not all of it!” She assures him quickly, “But… It’s so long, Jon. Which was fine in the North. But here, it’s so hot and it’ll be hard to take care of like this. It just makes sense to cut it to, say, my shoulders, and sell it to a wigmaker. It could fetch us some very good money. My color isn’t very common. And we could use the funds.”

Jon’s face practically crumbles. “I won’t have you reduced to selling your hair, Sansa. You’re Lady of Winterfell, for pity’s sake!”

“No, I’m not. Not anymore.” She sits up in the tub, “We left that behind, remember?”

“But we didn’t leave so you could sell your hair like a beggar.”

“I won’t. I’ll do it like a lady. It will be far from the most degrading thing I’ve done to survive, Jon.”

He looks devastated. “When we were little, you used to cry whenever anyone suggested cutting your hair.”

“I was a child, Jon. I’m not a child anymore. You’re acting like one, though.”

“This isn’t what your parents wanted for you, Sansa.”

“They’re dead,” she says shaken by his words. Her eyes narrow. “They’re dead, Jon. We may be all that’s left. You wanted to leave, Jon. We’re here because you wanted to be. Now I’m just trying to do what is needed to survive, and you’re fighting me. Why?”

“Because I should be doing better than this. Keeping you from getting to place where you’re selling parts of yourself!”

“It’s not about you, Jon! Or anything you’ve done! Or haven’t done! It’s about how things are now!”  
“Sansa, please… We’re not there yet. We don’t need money that badly. Give me a chance… Please.”

She looks into his eyes and sees the anxiety, the pain, and she sighs. “Fine. If you promise me not to sell Longclaw, I won’t sell my hair.”

His eyes widen. “Sansa, you know we need—”

“We’re not there yet. We don’t need money that badly. Don’t sell Longclaw. Or, at least… Wait three moons. If we’re going hungry then, sell it. But wait. Please.”

“Three moons?!”

“Three moons, or I’ll have every inch of it hacked off. I promise you, I’ll have them sheer me like a sheep. Same if you sell it after if we’re still comfortable.”

He groans and looks at his lap. “Very well. I suppose you’d better get to sewing, then.”

It’s far from the last argument they have. When they arrive at the party, he hovers over her. During their first couple of weeks, they take turns sleeping in the bed, leading to both of them only sleeping every other night and growing irritable and unreasonable. Things improve once they agree to share the bed at last.

Sansa manages to get them both a place at the dressmaker, but Jon ends up being offered more to keep the peace at the tavern three doors down from the shop, requiring him to work some nights. Sansa finds that she misses him terribly on those nights, that when he’s gone, she barely sleeps and when she does, she has nightmares about home. When she’s alone at night, she finds herself weeping.

Jon is good at his job, though. The Broken Drum tavern, once one of the most unruly places in their burrow, becomes far quieter real fast. The reputation of Bael ‘The Beast’ spreads, word of an ‘Andal’ who can tear five drunken sailors twice his size away from one another in seconds and turn the nastiest of drunks into frightened kittens in minutes.

It ends up benefitting Mistress Tanzel’s dress shop, too. Customers who used to avoid her residence due to the Drum’s issues now feel free to visit. In addition to that, there’s the stunning work of her beautiful new seamstress, whose designs are almost as pretty as she is.

Eventually, some of the famed courtesans of Braavos even end up visiting and requesting ‘Madam Jeyne’ specifically. Mistress Tanzel eventually decides it’s better for business if she adds the name ‘Jeyne the Andal’ to the sign on her door. She is correct.

After six moons, there’s not even a hint of suggestion that Longclaw be sold. They have moved into a little golden dwelling with a red door and a red roof that they rent from one of the merchant princes. They even have something of a yard of sorts: a small patch of grass in the back, but enough for Jon to start planting some vegetables. They’ve adapted to the Braavosi tongue and picked up words in other Valyrian dialects as well. They make friends. They come home with aching hands, feet, and backs, but they’re comfortable.

They still fight, though. Every so often, a mercenary captain arrives at the Broken Drum and offer Bael the Beast some ungodly sum to join his ranks. Sansa cannot help but panic when this happens. Making drunks behave is one thing, but soldiering is another. Terror grips her, and even when Jon makes it clear that he won’t say yes, she’s irritable for days after.

Not that Jon is alone in receiving troubling offers. Madam Jeyne gets a nickname, ‘Litses Andalis’— The Beautiful Andal. The clothes she makes are beautiful, but her face is even lovelier. And she begins to get propositions from courtesans and merchant princes willing to sponsor her to set up a barge of her own and become a courtesan herself. She’s beautiful, she is well-spoken and well mannered, she can sing and play the bells, she has style and sophistication and an aristocratic manner to her, she’s well read, and, thanks to her noble western accent and rare red hair, she’s ‘exotic’. Two of her renowned patronesses, great courtesans, persist in trying to convince her to join their ranks.

This displeases Bael the Beast to no end. Though sexual favors are not considered standard for the duties of a courtesan in Braavos, the word has another meaning in Westeros. And Bael/Jon is of Westeros. And, as with Sansa/Jeyne and the sellswords, he stews over it for days. Sometimes he dares to suggest she should fire her courtesan clients, and another fight ensues.

But even during their worst rows, Sansa finds herself weeping if she has to be alone that night.

Despite this, things are good. She feels safer and happier as Jeyne than she can remember feeling as Sansa. She leads a better life. She regrets leaving less every day.

But then she has a scare. A real one.

The day doesn’t start off brilliantly. Ritsa, one of the courtesan clients who continually urges her to ‘let me buy you a barge, darrrling!’ Insists Jeyne accompany her for the day around the city. “I saw this amaaazing play about all the mad things your lords and ladies and kings and queens in Westeros have been doing, and I want to know from a true Westerosi how accurate it truly is!”

And Sansa finds herself watching a stage play in which her father is portrayed as an idiotic traitor, Joffrey and Cersei as innocent and righteous, and the (terrible) actress playing ‘Sansa Stark’ has her bodice torn open by “Tyrion” and is eventually dubbed ‘The Whore’.

When the mummery ends, Ritsa looks at her. “Was the queen not marvelous? Well, what do you say? Should I invite them to perform on my barge?”

Snasa is shaken. She looks into Ritsa’s pretty green eyes. “I am from the North, the land of the Starks. Lord Eddard and his family, including his daughter, Sansa.”

“Ah! So you should know! Was the girl really such a trollop? The lord such a fool?”

“No. Lord Eddard was kind, honorable, and just, beloved by his people. He was unjustly accused of treason. The Lannisters were traitors. Joffrey was a monster. Lord Eddard’s children were betrayed and slaughtered. His daughter Sansa was held captive and tortured for years. She was only thirteen when she watched her father die. Joffrey went against his word and had Lord Eddard executed. The rumors about Queen Cersei were true. She and her family had tried to kill one of his sons before, and they sent men into the lands of Lord Eddard’s wife and butchered, burned, and raped the people of the countryside. Lord Eddard’s eldest son fought to free his sister and his people and avenge his father, and was butchered along with his mother at his uncle’s wedding. Men who swore themselves to him killed him, cut off his head and sewed the head of his pet wolf on his shoulders. They slaughtered his mother and dumped her naked body in a river. His two younger sons, mere boys, were betrayed and imprisoned in their own home, and eventually burned to death. The younger daughter disappeared. The elder, Sansa, spent years at Joffrey’s mercy, being stripped and beaten before the court. They forced her to marry Tyrion, and after he killed Joffrey, Lady Sansa was sold off to marry the son of her brother’s killer, a man who liked feeding girls to his dogs and flaying people. She ended up being raped in her own home. They say her screams at night echoed throughout Winterfell. She died before her eighteenth Name Day. The Lannisters now hold the Iron Throne, they built their power on the corpses and suffering of the Starks and their people.”

Ritsa freezes. “Truly?”

Jeyne nods. “The Glovers of Deepwood Motte were sworn to the Starks. My lord’s son died at the Red Wedding, killed along with King Robb and Lady Stark. My husband fought for the North. He actually met King Robb. And he witnessed many of the horrors the Lannisters visited upon our lands. The Boltons, the people who killed King Robb on the Lannisters’ behalf, took over the North, and raped and killed Lady Sansa? Their men visited my home.”

And Jeyne does something she has never done before. She pulls back the the sleeve of her gown, displaying one of the uglier scars Ramsay left her with. “Courtesy of Lannister allies. And it is not the only one I have. They drove us from our home and destroyed our lives.”

Ritsa starts sputtering apologies, but Jeyne is distracted all of a sudden. She feels eyes upon her, watching her closely. Too closely. She freezes in terror, suddenly feeling as if she’s back in the wolfswood, being attacked by Ramsay’s hounds. Her eyes dart around manically. And she sees someone. A figure, crouching on a sandstone balcony, staring straight at her. A second after Sansa spots the person, they move, darting away, darting into the building.

“Ah! My darrrling! I have upset you so! Forgive me!”

Leave. Leave now. Get out. Sansa looks at the courtesan. “Of course, but I… I must go home. I… I feel very unwell. Please, Ritsa…”

“Of course.” Ritsa bids her handmaiden to fetch her litter. “Send word to that busybody Tanzel that Madam Jeyne cannot return to the shop. And have word sent to Master Bael to come home as well!”

The courtesan makes her groomsmen bully other travelings to stand aside in the streets and makes Jeyne recline on her velvet pillows. “I can have a healer sent for you. One of those Andal maesters, even, if you wish!”

“No, no,” Sansa protests, “I just… I need rest. I need to get home. I need my husband. Please, Ritsa. I need some peace.”

“Of course, my love. I can have one of my guards go to your home and turn away callers, if you wish.”

“No, please, just—”

“Of course.”

Ritsa has one of her guards carry Jeyne in and place her on her bed. She gives orders for food to be delivered and stays with Jeyne until at last, Jon comes home, demanding to know where his wife is and charging into the bedchamber, clearly panicked.

The courtesan has her servants bring Bael and Jeyne pitchers of wine and lemonade, then promptly orders everyone, including herself, out of the house. “They must be alone!”

And they are, surprisingly enough. Jon kneels by the bed. “What is it? A fever? A pain in your head?”

Sansa, who had been lying back and making a great show of feeling weak, promptly sits up. “I’m not ill, Jon.”

“Then what–?”

She leans forward and clasps his hands in hers, looking into his eyes. “We must leave Braavos, Jon.”

“What?!”

“I’ve been found!”

“Slow down,” he says, getting up and taking a seat on the bed, “Tell me what happened, please.”

Sansa takes a deep breath and tries to focus. “Ritsa took me to a play today. A mummery about… about, well, King’s Landing. About Joffrey and Cersei and Father and Tyrion and me. After it ended, Ritsa and I were talking when I felt… I felt like I was being watched. And I was. Someone— I couldn’t see who— was crouching on a balcony, looking straight down at me. When they saw that I spotted them, they fled. And… I know it, Jon. They knew who I was. They did. And we can’t… We can’t remain here, Jon. We just can’t. We were foolish, drawing attention. I… I don’t know if this person is from Cersei or Ramsay or Littlefinger, but they knew me, Jon.”

“Sansa, are you sure? People look at you all the time—”

“I know, which is how I know this was different. I can tell. They weren’t looking at Madam Jeyne or Litses Andalis. They were looking at Sansa Stark. Someone knows, Jon. I swear it, by the Old Gods and New! We’ve been found!”

Jon hangs his head. “Alright then. Then I suppose you should know what happened last week.”

Her eyes narrow. “Last week?”

He sighs. “Last week, a wealthy lord from Pentos, a magister named Illyrio, came into the Broken Drum. He’d heard of me, and he made me an offer. I didn’t tell you, because I know how these things upset you, and I refused him, but he wanted me to captain his household guard. He told me that if I changed my mind, he’ll be staying at the manse of Prince Doriev until the next turn of the moon.”

Her blood freezes. “Jon, how and why would a magister from Pentos know of an immigrant tavern guard? And this happens a week before I end up being watched?”

“I know.” Jon swallows. “You’re right, we need to leave.”

She feels her heart ache. They were happy here.

“We need to settle our affairs, though. It will take a couple of days. And I’ll need to ask around a bit. Make some inquiries. But you need to stay home. If you have any orders, you finish them here and I’ll bring them to Tanzel. I’ll take care of things, though.”

“Jon…” She clutches his shoulder. “Please don’t leave me alone at night. Please. I can’t…”

“Alright,” he clutches her cheek. “I’ll be home at sundown. But I’ll have to leave now. I’m sorry, but—”

She nods. “Of course. Just don’t let me sleep alone.”

He keeps his word. He comes home when the sky is a tangerine color with Sansa’s things from Tanzel’s and some news. “It may be worse than we thought. I asked around about Illyrio. He made his fortune originally selling secrets with a partner. A eunuch who eventually left Pentos for Westeros.”

Sansa feels ill. “You don’t think it could be—?”

Jon nods. “You were right. What did Varys call his spies? Little doves?”

“‘Little Birds’.” Sansa laughs mirthlessly, “There was a guard at court who used to call me that, too. Cersei used to call me ‘Little Dove.’”

“I think the person watching you may have been one of his little birds. I’m just glad you spotted them.”

“If we’re right, Jon… It’s Cersei. It’s Cersei who has found us. Varys was Master of Whispers.”

Jon hangs his head. “We need to leave quickly. And we need to go far, very far. Qohor, maybe. Or Volantis. We need to get out.”

Sansa nods.

“And… We’ll need to sell Longclaw.”

Her blood freezes. “Jon, no! Please!”

“We’ll need good money to get out quickly and quietly enough, Sansa.”

“Let me sell my hair. I’m willing to bet one of my clients would give a fortune for the hair of Letsis Andalis. It’s too recognizable anyways, please—”

“If you sell your hair, I’ll get rid of Oathkeeper as well.”

This wasn’t supposed to happen. They were supposed to be happy, be free. Jon was supposed to be able to keep something. He holds her that night, she curls up around him and clutches his chest. She’s failed him. If she’d just done what he wanted… Stayed home, not called attention to herself, they’d be able to stay. They’d be safe.

At some point in the middle of the night, she starts saying the things she’s meant to say to him for moons now. She whispers as he sleeps.

“I’m so sorry, Jon.”

But all of a sudden, he lifts his head. “Sorry? For what?”

“I… I thought you were asleep.”

“I thought you were. Now, what are you sorry about?”

She sits up and closes her eyes. “I’m sorry I ruined your life. I’m sorry I endangered you when I ran from Ramsay. And I did, don’t pretend otherwise. I’m sorry you have had to carry me, care for me all this time. I’m sorry I didn’t do what you wanted. I’m sorry you’re tied to me, that you can’t be free thanks to me. That people are chasing you because of me. That you may spend the rest of your life running, because of me. That you may never marry, have a family of your own, because you have to pretend to be married to me. I’m so sorry you have to give up Longclaw, had to give up Ghost, to protect me. That I’ve been so troublesome. That I fight with you and upset you so much. I… I’m so sorry, Jon.”

“Sansa…” He clutches her cheek. “You have nothing to be sorry for. You’ve carried me, cared for me just as much as I’ve helped you. You found us the work in the neighborhood, you found our house, you kept us comfortable. You gave up home, gave up Winterfell, gave up your title and name and everything because I asked you to. You were ready to sell your bloody hair to keep me from giving up Longclaw. And… even with the fighting… Sansa… These past six moons have been the happiest of my life. I’d rather run with you than stay still with anyone.”

She looks at him, bathed in moonlight, his dark eyes large and sincere, his hair tousled from the pillow, his tunic hanging loosely from his shoulders. And she feels something… Something odd, but familiar.

And she also feels happier than she ever has, hearing him say he found joy with her. “Truly, Jon?”

He laughs and nods. “Yes. I love coming home and having you patch me up and tell me off for putting myself in danger. And seeing you hang up your silks and make all those pretty things and seeing people buy them and want them. It makes me so proud. And I love the life we’ve made here, with our friends and my little garden. I love sleeping beside you. I even… I know I shouldn’t, but—”

“–Yes?”

“I kind of, feel good that you always want me with you. That I’m needed. And honestly, I even enjoy our fights. When you get so upset at the idea of me fighting and getting hurt. And even when those idiots want you to… you know… I’m angry and jealous but I’m also rather proud that so many people think you’re so lovely that they’d literally buy you a boat to show the world how wonderful you are. And I enjoy the fact that I don’t have to belong to the Watch or the realm or a House or anyone. I like belonging to you.”

She smiles. “I like belonging to you, too.”

He pulls her into his lap then. “Sansa… I wish we really were Bael and Jeyne.”

And she can hear it, in his voice. What he really means by that. Her heart pounds. And she makes a decision. She pulls herself upwards and presses her lips to his ear. “We can be whoever we want right now.”

He tenses up. “Are… Are you sure?”

She takes a deep breath. “Maybe… The best way to escape for good is to really leave them behind. Everything Jon Snow and Sansa Stark were. We left so we could be free. Let’s be free, be happy.”

His breathing deepens and he strokes her hair. She kisses him, deeply, her lips parting almost at once to taste him. He leans her back against the pillows and moans against her mouth. They part finally, a bit breathlessly. He looms over her, pulling his tunic over his head and casting it aside. Following his lead, Sansa reaches for the hem of her shift.

She’s been naked in front of him plenty of times. Bathed in his presence, dressed and undressed. But not like this. She’s aware of her body, very aware. She’s been aware of it before, afraid, uncomfortable under the gaze of countless people. But she’s not uncomfortable now. Nervous, yes, but giddy as she sees his eyes drink her in, his gaze utterly reverent.

He descends down upon her, pressing urgent kisses to her neck, moving down her body. When he gets to her breasts, he practically attacks them: licking, kissing, nibbling at her hardened nipples. It makes her back arch slightly. When his hands snake down to the juncture between her legs, she actually cries out. Merely stroking her mound sends a little shockwave through her. Carefully, he parts her folds and finds her nub, stroking her at a leisurely pace.

His mouth leaves her breasts and she expects him to move upwards to her lips, but he goes in the opposite direction.

“Jon… Are you…?”

He looks up at her for second, a devilish glint in his eye. “I’m going to kiss and lick that cunny of yours until you’re screaming my name.”

Jon, as always, is a man of his word. She goes from having her thighs wrapped so tightly around his head that she almost fears she’s strangling him, to becoming utterly boneless and spent. His beard is matted and he wear an extremely satisfied smirk as he rises up from between her legs.

“Did you enjoy that?” He inquires in a tone that makes her want to smack him.

“Yes.” She says this in the most dignified tone she can manage while panting.

“Good.” He leans down and presses his lips to her ear. “Now, may I come into your castle, my lady?”

She reaching for the waist of his smallclothes. But suddenly clutches him, cupping his hardness through the linen. He tenses up and gasps.

“Yes.” She says again, spreading her legs.

There’s a tearing sound, and seconds later, his length is rubbing against her lower lips.

“Gods, you’re soaked!”

“So.. is your… beard…” She gasps, but with a point to her gasps.

He enters her slowly, gently, his eyes squeezed shut and his brow furrowed in concentration. Sansa clutches his shoulders, adjusting to him. She wants to tell him to just go, to take his pleasure. But she can’t. Not yet. It’s not just her cunny that’s adjusting to this. The last time she was in this position, she was at Winterfell. With Ramsay.

She loves Jon for how careful he is, how concentrated, how determined. And she wishes she could tell him he doesn’t have to try so hard. She wishes she were ready for him the way she should be. She wants them to both be able to just surrender themselves. But she can’t. Not yet.

So she holds him, sighing in his ear, encouraging him the way she can. She tells him he is doing well, that she loves him. “Yes, that’s… Good… Yes… Slow… Yes, my sweet Jon. I love you, my sweet man…”

Her insides relax, and she feels less invaded, more filled. She smiles as her discomfort melts away and urges him to go faster. A sweet pressure within her builds as his pace increases. And she’s urging him to go faster, harder, her hips moving in a sweet rhythm. Everything else melts away. She melts away. She feels as if she’s inside him, inside herself, as much as he’s inside her. When her peak comes, it’s gentler than what she felt with his mouth. But she’s grinning, almost giddy with it. Soon after, he pulls out and makes a noise somewhere between a moan, grunt, and a cry. She feels his seed spill onto her thighs, and he finally relaxes against her, resting his head on her chest and panting.

Sansa smiles and cradles his head. She thought this could never happen for her. That she’d been ruined. But she hasn’t.

They sleep peacefully. But when morning comes, the peace ends. He kisses her in the morning and calls her his Sweetling. Then he gets up and pulls on some clothes. Sansa watches from bed, sheet pulled up to her chest, miserable as Jon opens his wardrobe and pulls out the sheathed Longclaw. With the disguised hilt and coated blade, it doesn’t look like much, really. But she knows the truth of it. What lies beneath that thin layer of iron. Where black ripples shimmer through the silver steel, marking it as a weapon more rare than diamonds, more powerful than any other. Made from the ancient arts of the dragonlords. The metal that can cut through anything. The blade with which he killed a White Walker. The blade that saved his life. That blade he earned by saving a life.

She tries again. “Jon, please…”

He sighs, sets it aside and comes over, leaning down and cupping her cheek. “Sansa… In the end, it’s only a thing.”

“A thing which saved your life!”

“So has armor I’ve owned over the years. I didn’t mourn that. We still have Oathkeeper, Sansa. Getting out of Braavos safely and escaping is more important.”

She knows he’s right. That’s the worst part.

He kisses her goodbye. “Please, stay in the house.”

She nods and watches him leave mournfully. She spends the day packing and sewing, trying to distract herself. He returns before sundown, no blade, but a hauling a beaten-looking trunk off of a wagon. Sansa watches him haul it into their front room and stares. “You found a buyer?”

“Of course.” Jon bends down and opens the trunk. The contents shine. “Should be enough to get us out of the city, don’t you think?”

She nods. “Enough to get us out of ten cities.”

He looks around. “I see you’ve packed up.”

“And two of the three orders I had are finished.” She frowns, hugging herself. “I’ll have the third finished by mid-day tomorrow.”

“Then we’ll be able to leave at sundown. We just have to decide. Qohor or Volantis?”

Sansa takes a deep breath. “Volantis, I think. I love the sea. It was the one part of King’s Landing I missed, watching the ships sail off, making up stories about where they’re going. Breathing the salty air.” She sighs. Seconds later arms are around her.

“Volantis it is, then,” he declares, nuzzling her ear, “And who shall we be?”

“Alys and Edric, from Barrowton. Edric was a steward, Alys a maid to Lady Dustin. We fled after the Ironborn raids.”

“Are we to always be from the North?”

“We might come from somewhere else, if it weren’t for that ridiculous accent of yours.”

He snorts. “My apologies, then.” He gives her an extra squeeze. “It’ll be alright, I promise.”

But the next morning, they find something that implies otherwise. Laying at the foot of their bed is Longclaw. Sansa shrieks when she sees it, waking him. Jon jumps to his feet, grabs the blade, and charges out of the bedroom, sword unsheathed. Sansa waits. And waits. And hears nothing.

No. Finally, she gets out of bed and opens Jon’s wardrobe. Oathkeeper waits there for her and awkwardly, she unsheaths it. She has never so much as held a sword. But if someone is in their house, and Jon is in danger, then she must. Arms shaking, she tiptoes out of the room and makes for the front chamber.

When she gets there, she drops the sword and nearly falls to the ground in shock.

Jon, slumped on a bench in the middle of the room, is in a similar state, thanks to the person sitting beside him.

Sansa recognizes their visitor as two people: 1) The person who had been watching her at the play and 2) Her little sister.

It’s unmistakable when she turns her head at Sansa’s entrance. Her sister has grown older, taller, her face is has less baby fat, her hair is shorter. But it’s her.

“…Arya?”

A smile spreads across her elfin face. “Sansa…” She rises and comes over, pulling Sansa to her and kissing both cheeks.

Sansa realizes a moment later that she’s crying. “It’s you,” she whispers, “Truly.”

Arya pulls away and nods. “Truly. I… I couldn’t believe it. When I saw you the other day. I thought I was dreaming.”

“I feel like I’m dreaming now.”


End file.
